


Aftermath

by GillO



Category: Angel: the Series, Buffy the Vampire Slayer
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2006-05-14
Updated: 2006-05-14
Packaged: 2017-10-10 20:11:04
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,120
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/103802
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/GillO/pseuds/GillO
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Based on an original story of the same name by Just Sue of LJ. Her name does not show as a "valid pseud", but it's important to credit her for the original story.</p><p>Post NFA; Spike is in a bad state. Spuffy warning.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Aftermath

The room was cold, minimalist, unloved-looking. In the centre of the bed lay a tangled heap of shredded fabric and strips of black leather. At the heart of that was pain. Not the sort of pain that you get from a skinned knee, a sprained wrist, even a broken limb. This was unremitting, extended pain, bruise upon bruise, gouge upon scrape upon scar. There was no movement, not even the rise and fall of breathing. Just the agony.

 

An eye flicked open, its blue gaze unfocussed but pointed vaguely upwards. A squint, then the other eye. Two eyebrows, one badly scarred, moved together, wrinkling the smooth white skin above them. There was the faintest of grunts, then a hand moved to cover the eyes. God, that had to have been one hell of a piss-up.

 

All at once the heap of debris redefined itself into a human shape and erupted into a sitting position. Memories came hurtling back, unwelcome but unavoidable. There had been a fight. OK, that was hardly unusual in his life – unlife. Fights were more or less his raison d' être, after all, at least these days. There had to be more to it than that.

 

Pushing himself off the bed in a single fluid motion, for which he just knew he would be paying later, he groped his way towards the microwave, the fridge, the mug rack, the fridge and finally the microwave again. Doing things in the right order first time was an attractive concept but currently way beyond his capacity. Two bags of blood, minimum, and he might even be able to stand without support.

 

Bugger it. His body was still aching, but the pain was reducing, to the point that he had some spare brain capacity to consider what had actually happened. And this was not good. Wes was dead. So, presumably, was Gunn. The amount of blood pouring off Charlie the last time he'd looked at him made him a tempting treat, but didn't exactly enhance his longevity prospects. Nor did the outrageously improbable tally of demons he'd declared he was going to take down. Nope. Spike really didn't hold out much hope for him. And was surprised at the sudden jolt of pain that thought caused.

 

The others? Where were they now, he wondered. Blue might have lost some of her powers to Wes's ray-gun mojo, but she (he?) was still a warrior in every cell of her usurped body. She excelled in the fight, the true zest for battle shone from her, and it was hard to imagine her going down easily. He was here, wasn't he? And someone had got him back to this dreary little room. Her? He hoped so.

 

And Angel. Hard to think about him without mental name-calling even now, but fair, in the end, was fair. Mr. Broody had come through in the end, with a plan of such breathtakingly well-orchestrated violence that Spike was forced to give him credit. So where was he now? A pile of dust? Probably, but it was odd how it hurt even to think of that. A century plus of fighting couldn't just stop like that, could it?

 

Images of the battle coursed through his mind. The spear which had struck through his shoulder – his right shoulder, fortunately – sometimes being a lefty had its advantages. There was a raw cut on his cheek, healing now but still deep. Crushed ribs, smashed knee – yes, still hurting like hell. The only surprise was that there was any undusted part of him to feel that pain. A strange, vague memory of hands gripping his ankles, roughly dragging him – somewhere. Then nothing till he'd woken, here and alone.

 

However hard he tried to focus on the latest fight, the fight together against All Evil, his mind kept straying off to the recent fights, the squabbles between them. About her. The woman he'd known how to die for but had been too much of a coward to know how to live for. All those internal conversations, month after month. All the self-justification, excuses, avoidances. Now he'd been so close to finality they came back to bite him in the arse. He didn't even know if she knew he was still around. He certainly didn't know whether she'd care.

 

He slammed down the empty mug. "Sod it. Make a decision, you stupid ponce. Find out what happened, then have the guts to find out about her."

 

A decision. Right. Just a little more rest and he'd go back to that alley, investigate what had gone down.

Just a little more rest.

****************************************************************************************

Buffy tapped her booted foot in mounting annoyance. Why was it so hard to get Giles to listen to her? Had it always been like this? Just when had he stopped understanding English?

 

"Giles." She cut off her Watcher abruptly. "I'll say it once more, slowly. You are just not getting the picture. I've done all you asked in this assignment and it's got us beyond nowhere. I have gone as far as I can with the Immortal, short of leaping into bed with him – and you'd better think very carefully before you ask that of me. If you want to live, that is. I deserve a sodding Oscar!"

 

She winced. That word – why had she used it? His word. A year's delay and it stung as much as ever. Her loss was there every moment, waiting to leap out at her at an unguarded thought, a random reference. It was worse when she was alone, and all those disregarded options forced themselves back on her; those moments when she could have said or done something earlier or better. Stupid vampire. A magnificent sacrifice was all very well, but it didn't keep a girl happy on long winter nights. Secret weeping was still a problem.

 

She snapped back her attention. Giles was being even vaguer and more Giles-like than usual. "Look," she said, exasperated, "I don't care what Dawn and Andrew say. Of course they think I've been gallivanting around and partying my butt off with The Immortal. I've been following orders. Your orders. What do you mean, "For once"?" Holding the sticky, sweaty phone away from her ear for a moment, she sighed. A shower, a soak in the tub. So overdue. "No, Giles. Whatever they have told you, it has not been fun. I am not a party animal these days. You know that. So. Can I please drop this whole thing with him? Surely there's something else going on, somewhere for me to get into?"

 

Back in England, Giles automatically reached for the polishing cloth. Oh good lord, this was going to be hard. Why on earth had he believed that pair when they assured him she was happy, had moved on with her life? And if he had to find out different, why now? In LA all their sources pointed to a huge impending battle between Angel and his little team and the Circle of the Black Thorn. Dozens of slayers and the cream of the covens were on the alert or on their way to help tilt the balance. Giles had been relieved that Buffy had been so busy in Rome and that he wouldn't have to involve her. Now, however…

 

He took a deep breath and plunged in. "Buffy, I have something to tell you."

****************************************************************************************

Rage fought bewilderment fought panic fought senseless joy. Buffy crushed them all down as she whirled about her apartment, flinging clothes and toiletries almost at random into the first bag that came to hand. A scrawled post-it to Dawn on the fridge and she was on her way.

 

Spike was alive. Spike hadn't seen fit to mention the fact. Spike was in danger.

 

There was no time to be angry with Giles just now, though that set of emotions was carefully filed away for future examination. She'd been astonished by her own icy calm as she'd instructed him to arrange tickets, transport, expedition. Andrew, too, would be dealt with later. He had lived with her and Dawn for months without once mentioning the trivial fact that Spike – her Spike – was not a heap of dust at the bottom of a crater but undead and well in Los Angeles. That was not going to be overlooked lightly. Or at all. As for Angel.

 

Well, that settled it. Her cookies were baked now, and not for him. Whether he had influenced or prevented Spike from contacting her or simply colluded in the general camouflage, once more no doubt with her best interests at heart, it was irrelevant. If he survived his latest apocalypse she'd have a few crisp words for him. But definitely no cookies, not ever again.

 

Buffy didn't really pause for breath until she was settled in the comfortable business-class seat which Giles had procured for her with impressive speed, almost as if he had been intimidated by her fury. Perhaps he had. Good. It was about time he and all her damned interfering beloved friends learned that she was no longer sixteen, or any kind of teen for that matter, and had the right to make her own choices, in full possession of the relevant data.

 

And what data this was. Spike. There was a kaleidoscope of memories - some good, some bad and some downright terrible. But they all ended up at the same moment, when Buffy had thought she was leaving him for the last time.

 

As it turned out, that needn't be quite true. But why in hell hadn't he contacted her? Didn't he know she needed him? Oh yes, right. He hadn't believed her, had he? And why not? Because she'd exploited and abused him till it became impossible for him to believe what she'd said.

The airplane leapt into the skies, leaving Rome behind as unheeding as Buffy. She stared at the window glass, but her eyes were full of the memories of flaming hands and compassionate expressions. Tears welled up and ran down her cheeks.

****************************************************************************************

The last rays of the setting sun drifted across pale skin.

"Bloody hell! Ow!" Spike lurched out of the line of attack and shook his smouldering hand. He really did need to check those blinds. Still, the aches were distinctly fewer. That had to matter a little, right?

 

The final vestiges of his dream brought a twisted smile to his lips. Buffy again, as usual. What sort of stupid git was he? As if the Slayer would throw herself into his arms even if she did find out he was still undead and kicking? Not that he'd exactly found the balls to let her know that little fact any time in the preceding months.

 

His preceding months had been full – but not that full. He knew bloody well he'd done nothing but make excuses for himself and to himself, and even to that little twerp Andrew. Well, the mess he must assume he was in now made it all pretty academic anyway.

 

Despite his best efforts, memories of the final battle were forcing themselves back on him.

He really couldn't put it off any longer. He might be cramped from sleeping on a sofa, but his body was healing itself with its usual vampire efficiency. It really was time now to find out whether anything of Blue and Admiral Hair Gel remained besides dust. And to work out what happened next from there.

 

First things first – more blood, a shower. Then a return to stare glumly at the remnants of his beloved duster. Oh well. That Costa Bianchi bint had sent more. For now clean, well-worn jeans and a shirt would do. He eased his sore but less painful body into the clothes carefully. Vampire healing definitely had its points. He'd need to favour the knee for a day or two, but it would carry him. Slipping his lighter, smokes and a stake in his pocket, he left the basement.

 

 

There was no rain tonight. The stars tried to penetrate the LA smog but were fighting a losing battle. The Hyperion was the logical first stop – that was where they had last been together. If it was still standing, that was – and that was by no means a given. The alley at least must have been very thoroughly trashed. He remembered a dragon – if that had fallen it would have taken a fair-sized building with it. And Angel? He pushed the nagging question to the back of his brain and strode on.

****************************************************************************************

As soon as she cleared customs, Buffy headed for a quiet spot and dug out her cellphone.

 

"Giles? Buffy. What's the latest? Yes, I'm in LA, at the airport. I need to know what's going down."

The voice from far away sounded hesitant. "I'm sorry, Buffy. The news is very mixed. There was a big battle, two nights ago your time. We know there were at least two deaths amongst Angel's crew."

 

Her heart skipped a beat. "Angel? Spike? Are they?"

 

"Angel's fine. Well, not so fine as all that, but quite as alive as he was before. Wesley Wyndham-Price is gone. And Gunn – that street fighter who hung around with Angel for a few years. We don't know what happened to the strange creature Illyria. It's disappeared. We assume it's dead."

 

"Angel's alive? "

 

"Yes, we have him in a special medical facility, with a couple of Slayers on guard. He's weak, but he'll recover. It was a tough fight, Buffy. Even with the arrival of our party and Willow's friends it was a close-run thing. "

 

"Giles. There's one name you haven't mentioned yet. What. Happened. To. Spike? I need to know."

 

A slight pause. My god, was the man determined to eke out every touch of suspense?

 

"Buffy, we just don't know. There was no sign of him at the end of the battle. It was in an alley at the back of that half-derelict hotel Angel used to inhabit, and the only other corpses we found were those of demons. No sign of any heaps of dust either, but that doesn't say a lot – it was raining hard, and anything could have been washed away. He could be gone or have crawled away to some hole of his own. We have people on it, but no trace so far. There was no information on where he'd been staying and nothing left of him to use for tracing."

 

"Is Willow trying?"

 

"Buffy, half her coven is injured. Give her a break."

 

"I see. So I just have to wait, do I? Thanks." And she flipped the cellphone shut. Help like that she could really do without. She winced as she realized she'd made no attempt to find out the nature of Angel's injuries. Guess that answered that problem, then. Crossing to the exit, she hailed a cab. If nobody else was doing the leg work, then she would. Stylish yet affordable boots into action!

****************************************************************************************

As the taxi pulled away, Buffy slipped her rucksack on her shoulder and checked the stake was still slipped inside her pocket. This had to be the right place – a dingy alley, the sort that was usually full of garbage. This one looked suspiciously clean, though – someone or something had been scrubbing it or hosing it down of late. Removing evidence of anything unusual, presumably. Or of vampire dust.

 

She bit down hard on her lower lip. Pain in the body was always a good way to distract from pain in the mind. There was no way she was going to accept he was dust. Not when she'd gotten so close to seeing him again. So many wasted months when she could have been with him – they couldn't really be for nothing, could they? She had so many things she needed to say and he needed to hear.

 

Spike, you gave me back myself. You gave me love and support and time. Forgive me. I meant what I said.

 

As she moved into the alley Buffy fought off the tears yet again welling up and a rising sense of hopelessness. Surely there must be some sort of a sign that Spike had been there, some clue to where he was now? She stumbled against the wall, clutching it vainly for support as yet again the weeping took over her conscious control and she cried out for her lost love, the man she had dared call beneath her, when he had been so far above.

 

And then, beyond hope, she sensed a vampire lurking in the shadows. The tingle up her spine felt so familiar.

 

Buffy's head whipped up in disbelief, her senses screaming at her that Spike was near. With her eyes fixed on the entrance to the alley, she hesitantly began to push herself up.

"Spike?" she whispered hopefully.

 

With a roar the vampire leapt. Before she could move he had her in his arms.

Gripped from behind, her wrists were clamped firmly together. His fangs descended and his features took on those of a nightmare. The burly creature, so very much not Spike, had her exactly where he wanted her. He gripped her throat and prepared to drink. So this was it, after all those years. And somehow, now, Buffy couldn't really find it in herself to care.

 

Things happened then in a confused and disturbing way. As her head was jerked up, leaving her throat vulnerable, she saw a shock of white hair, tendrils curling in every direction. Wishful thinking at the point of death? Then a bellow of pure, violent rage – and not from her captor. Somewhere in that bellow was a word, her own name. Buffy.

 

Spike froze almost as soon as he had yelled. Any move and that, that thing would rip her throat open. He couldn't lose her now, surely. Any action, and any inaction, would be equally bad. A torrent of words cascaded from him, British and American obscenities mixed haphazardly together.

And then, against all reason, Buffy staggered free. Behind her, instead of the towering, coarse-featured and evil thing was a cloud of dust. And behind that…

 

"Blue! What in hell's name?"

"Hell has nothing to do with it. I did not like this half-breed. Its smell offended me. Did you not wish me to destroy it?"

Illyria turned, with an expression he could almost have called amusement. "Is this the female of which you and the other vampire have spoken? It seems very feeble to me."

 

By that time, though, Spike wasn't listening. Nor was the Slayer, for once the beneficiary of a rescue, not the instigator. Illyria watched, curiously, as they leaned into each other, locked eyes, then locked lips. Somehow it was clear that answers were going to have to wait a while.


End file.
